


insouciance

by themarvelousmaize



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Idiots in Love, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Porn With Plot, Sex, Smut, in this story we say fuck you to ep6, lots and lots of it, part elf!Jaskier, some geralt/yen but very little & very mild, there are feelings too, these two have a lot of sex in this story, you’ve been warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23303710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themarvelousmaize/pseuds/themarvelousmaize
Summary: “This doesn’t mean anything,” Geralt says up against Jaskier’s mouth, hands divesting the bard of his doublet.“Right,” Jaskier assures. His eyes are gleaming, even in the cover of darkness. “Just two men looking for - ah - the warmth of another body whilst on the lonely road.”Or: Geralt and Jaskier sleep together for the first time when Jaskier is twenty-one years old. Then it keeps happening. Again and again and again.It’s just an arrangement of convenience. One borne out of the need to fuck, and fuck without worrying about being attacked or killed. It’s not supposed to mean anything.Until it does.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 62
Kudos: 2065
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, these bitches gay! good for them!!





	insouciance

**Author's Note:**

> hoping everyone is doing as well as they can. i myself am coping with social distancing/voluntarily staying at home by writing some good-old fashioned smut. idk what this story even is, but hope y’all enjoy it nonetheless.

Geralt and Jaskier sleep together for the first time when Jaskier is twenty-one years old. 

If Geralt is being perfectly honest, he doesn’t exactly know _how_ it happens or who initiated what. Only that they’ve been traveling for some time now, the Witcher taking up contract after contract - often for too little coin - and the bard trailing after him, like a shadow. The frequency and voracity with which Geralt hunts monsters means there is little time to dawdle in small villages and backwater towns. Which means little time spent in rickety taverns and questionable whorehouses, engaged in the delights of the flesh, the basest, most carnal of pleasures.

And Geralt is not human, but he is a red-blooded male. He has needs. 

So does Jaskier, for that matter. 

Jaskier, with the warm brown hair that appears perpetually windswept, bright sapphire eyes, and peach-pink mouth mischievously curled with song or quip. Who is twenty-one and has been by Geralt’s side in some capacity or another since he was eighteen years old. Jaskier, who is tall and lithe and wears the most frivolous clothing. Who Geralt can admit is not entirely displeasing to look at.

Well -

Fuck. 

So the bard is quite attractive - pretty, really. Soft and hard, and angled and curved all at once. He’s chock full of bewildering contradictions, like a puzzle, that Geralt can’t _wait_ to solve.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Geralt says up against Jaskier’s mouth, hands divesting the bard of his doublet.

“Right,” Jaskier assures. His eyes are gleaming, even in the cover of darkness. “Just two men looking for - ah - the warmth of another body whilst on the lonely road.”

“So we’re in agreement.”

Geralt lays a hand flat against Jaskier’s chest and shoves gently, sending Jaskier sprawling on the bedroll, and fuck, he shouldn’t look this good, laid out for Geralt like this. Like the most appetizing of meals, and the Witcher fully intends to _devour._

“I believe you have yourself a bargain, Witcher.”

Jaskier licks his lips, all tantalizing, and surges up, grabbing the chain of the wolf medallion around Geralt’s neck to tug Geralt down. Geralt grunts, but goes with the motion with little protest, meeting Jaskier in a searing kiss that’s all tongue and teeth. He’s hard already, finds himself encouraged that Jaskier is in a similar state of arousal. The savory, rich smell of lust surrounds the bard, mingling with his signature scent of primrose and sandalwood. It’s heady, intoxicating, and Geralt soon loses himself in all the delicious sensations of the naked person underneath him. 

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier says, breathless, as the Witcher sucks a bruise into the bard’s throat. “Not that I, hmm, don’t enjoy the thoroughness of your ministrations, but could you perchance, perhaps, get _the fuck on_ with it?”

“Filthy,” Geralt murmurs, but he’s grinning as he sits back on his haunches long enough to retrieve that little vial of lavender oil from his pack. He crawls back up over Jaskier’s body and traps him in between bowed arms. “I wonder what other things you’ll say when I get you begging for my cock.”

Jaskier laughs throaty and low, eyes alight as he watches Geralt coat his fingers. The smell of lavender soon fills up the air between them. “You think I’ll beg? Oh, I’d love to see you _make_ me, Witcher.”

The gauntlet is thrown, and Geralt is more than willing to rise to the challenge. His oil-slicked fingers soon press into the darkest, most intimate part of Jaskier. He works quickly and methodically to spread the bard open, introducing one finger after the next until Geralt has three sword-calloused fingers inside of Jaskier. The whole time, Jaskier keens and writhes and rolls his hips, fucking himself on Geralt’s fingers with relentless enthusiasm. 

Fuck, if it isn’t the most attractive thing Geralt’s seen in a long time. It’s got him so hard his cock is throbbing. He turns his head to bite at Jaskier’s shoulder, trying to stave off the need to rut. Geralt’s rewarded with another high-pitched moan, and blunt fingernails swiping at the broad expanse of his back.

Beneath him, Jaskier’s pupils are blown wide, his skin flushed a pretty pink, and his lips kiss-stung. “Melitele’s sake, I’m ready _now_ , Geralt, will you just fuck me already?” the bard snaps, and gods he sounds _wrecked_ already. 

“Ready to beg?”

“Fuck you.” 

“Only if you say the word, bard. You know what I want to hear,” Geralt coaxes, curling his fingers and Jaskier nearly sobs with it. “Come now, say it. Say it for me.”

Jaskier shudders, hands coming up to squeeze the Witcher’s biceps. “Please. Please Geralt, use that magnificent cock of yours and _fuck me_!”

Geralt smirks; slips his fingers out and roughly spreads Jaskier’s thighs open. “Was that so hard?”

“You can just shove - _ohh_ fuck, Geralt.”

Jaskier’s head falls back in a silent wail as Geralt sinks into the hot, wet tightness of the bard’s body inch by inch until their pressed flush together. A groan builds low in his throat - he can feel those velvet walls fluttering as they stretch around his cock, and it feels too good. 

Then he starts to move - and everything melts away as they seek the white-hot rush of release in each other’s bodies. 

“Well that was positively fantastic, wouldn’t you say? We should _definitely_ do that again sometime,” Jaskier remarks later, a little breathlessly. He’s shirtless still, pale skin almost glowing in the moonlight, the collection of red and purple marks on his neck and right shoulder offering up a stark contrast. He looks positively ravished. It’s a good look on him. 

Geralt lets his gaze move away from the bard towards the crescent moon. There’s a faint smile curling his lips. “Hm.”

***

They sleep together more often than not after that, their arrangement of convenience suitable to both their needs. There are a number of reasons why Geralt considers Jaskier an appealing bedmate. Namely, that Jaskier doesn’t fear the Witcher, the way other partners - paid company included - might. He’s not unnerved by the yellow of his eyes, the scars dotting his body, the silver-white of his hair. Jaskier also doesn’t sleep with him to fulfill some fetish or fantasy, the way some of the more daring townsfolk Geralt has encountered tried to. 

Jaskier - Jaskier sleeps with him simply because he enjoys it, because he’s good at it, and because he’s got a rather impressively insatiable stamina that gets to put to good use with Geralt. Which suits Geralt just fine, really.

The frequency with which they end up in bed together (or on soft furs, or forest floors, or walls - any flat surface really) means that Geralt gets to know how Jaskier likes to fuck and be fucked; what sets him off, what leaves him breathless, and what makes those high, keening noises Geralt enjoys so much come out of that peach-pink mouth. 

It also means that _Jaskier_ learns those same things about Geralt too. And fuck, if that isn’t the part of the reason they can’t seem to keep their hands off each other. 

“Jaskier, _fuck_ -” Geralt grinds his teeth together as the bard takes him fully in his clever, wicked mouth. Blue eyes flicker up to meet his gaze knowingly, as Jaskier proceeds to suck him off _exactly_ the way Geralt likes - fast and hard and messy, with just the right amount of tongue. Geralt can’t help the groan that leaves his mouth, his hips rocking up involuntarily as Jaskier sucks harder. He winds his hand into luscious brown hair and pulls. Jaskier moans, the sound reverberating all around Geralt’s cock, his fingers scraping at the Witcher’s thighs, and gods the sting of pain just makes it all _that much better_. 

Geralt tugs on Jaskier’s hair a little harder - knows how much the bard likes it when Geralt gets rough with him - and rolls his hips, fucking into Jaskier’s mouth. The bard looks up at him from where he is on his knees. He looks pretty as a picture like this, eyes almost black, lips as red as berries, stretched out over Geralt’s cock. There’s a bit of drool coming out of that mouth, and it shouldn’t be possible, how much Geralt enjoys all of it; how out of control he feels as he keeps pumping his hips and Jaskier just _takes_ it, just _loves_ it. 

He soon tumbles over that edge, fingers tightening in that brown hair as he comes with only a gravelly, “ _Jaskier_ ,” moaned beforehand as warning. The bard sucks him through his release, lapping it all, before he releases Geralt’s cock. He stands up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he does, and it is deliciously obscene, makes Geralt’s softened cock twitch with faint interest. 

Jaskier flops onto the bed next to Geralt. He smiles lazily as Geralt turns and slides on top of him, arms braced on either side of Jaskier’s head. “Have I told you lately what a brilliant cock you have?”

“Believe you’ve mentioned it once or twice before,” Geralt says, leaning forward to kiss down Jaskier’s neck and chest, pausing to suck one of the cherry pink nipples in his mouth, eliciting a delightful, choked off moan.

“It bears repeating, dear Witcher. Truly a cock made for sucking.” Jaskier watches him from beneath dark and heavy lashes as Geralt traces a languid path down Jaskier’s body with his mouth. “Pity I can’t write a song about this.”

“If you did, I’d stop.”

“Well we can’t have that can we?”

Jaskier lets out the softest sigh as Geralt’s mouth finally reaches its destination. 

“Oh, _Geralt_ -” the rest of Jaskier’s sentence is choked off as Geralt’s mouth wraps itself around Jaskier’s cock, and he proceeds to strongly return the favor. 

***

Geralt accompanies Jaskier to the betrothal feast at Cintra. The bard proved relentless in his insistence that Geralt tag along to protect him from cuckolded spouses bent on revenge. 

It’s not exclusive, their arrangement. Geralt is fully aware of that fact - doesn’t begrudge Jaskier for his other partners, poor as his choices might be. He can’t, really, when he too will from time to time seek out others to warm his bed. 

The feast proves uneventful at first. Jaskier plays a medley of his more successful songs, moving about the grand hall with confidence and ease as he sings. He’s in his element, clearly enjoys being watched, and Geralt must concede that the bard looks absolutely delectable out there as he sings and plays and dances - notices the interested glances the men and women at court alike cast Jaskier’s way, and he feels something strange and hot, and _green_ slither around in the pit of his stomach. He’s reminded, not for the first time, how _famous_ Jaskier’s become since they first met nearly a decade ago; how intensely the masses identify with, respond to, and _like_ the bard. The strange feeling building in his gut grows stronger. 

Geralt squashes it down ruthlessly before he can assign it a name, and tries to focus on making sure his foolish bard doesn’t get himself killed, and engaging the Queen in casual, if loaded, conversation. 

What is supposed to be an uneventful feast - an opportunity for Jaskier to solidify his status as one of the greatest bards in the land - descends into complete and utter chaos. The cursed knight Duny arrives, declaring his love for Pavetta - a love the young princess unapologetically reciprocates - and ignites a furious battle in the hall. Geralt joins, with a cursory glance to make sure Jaskier has retreated to relative safety, and saves Duny from a blow that most likely would have been deadly. 

When the dust settles and Calanthe begrudgingly blesses the union of her daughter, Duny insists on repaying his debt to Geralt. 

And Geralt - a _fool,_ an utter _imbecile_ \- claims the Law of Surprise. Watches with a cold rush of fear as Pavetta promptly throws up. 

He beats a hasty retreat, furious with himself, and overwhelmed by what he’s done. Geralt can’t - he _can’t_ subject a child to his life. A life of blood and gore and death and loneliness - 

“Geralt? Geralt are you alright?”

Jaskier is standing there, his fine gold doublet undone, his chemise prominently on display. His chest is heaving a little, and there are two spots of color high up on his cheekbones. He must have chased after Geralt. The realization causes a heavy stone to lodge itself in Geralt’s throat. 

He turns away, keeps walking in direction of the tavern where they’d rented a room for the night. “I’m leaving.”

“Wait, leaving? Geralt you can’t leave. You have a-”

“Don’t say it,” Geralt cuts in with a hiss, swirling around. Jaskier nearly staggers with the intensity of Geralt’s words. Even in the relative darkness, his eyes are as blue and earnest as ever. Regret swells up in Geralt’s chest, and he tries to soften the blow of his words with a small, “ _please_.” 

Jaskier presses his lips together, as if he’s fighting against the words bubbling up in his throat, before he nods. 

The walk back to the tavern is spent in silence, something Geralt should be thankful for, but he’s grown used - perhaps even _fond_ \- of Jaskier’s chattering, so it does little to soothe his addled mind. He nearly breaks the silence himself a few times, but finds that he has no words to describe how he feels. Jaskier has always been the one good with words. 

Thankfully, the bard speaks as soon as they’re back in the confines of the modest room they’d rented. 

“Forget about what happened for now. Let me make you feel good,” Jaskier murmurs, so enticing and persuasive, hands already fisting in Geralt’s shirt. He did always know exactly what Geralt needed. The thought should unnerve, disquiet the Witcher, but it does neither. “You can have me any way you want.”

Geralt closes his eyes briefly. He’s made a right mess of this night and he desperately, _desperately,_ wants to forget it; wants to drown in something that isn’t the magnitude of what he’s done. He opens up his eyes again only to meet steady ocean blue. “On your hands and knees,” he instructs. 

He ignores the way his gut tightens at the brilliant smile Jaskier shoots him; concentrates only on the way Jaskier proceeds to make good on his promise; loses himself in the sensations of the body he has come to know almost as well as his own. 

***

When Jaskier is harmed by the djinn, Geralt immediately sets off towards the mage in Rinde, intent on getting him help quickly. Jaskier’s eyes are wide and his heart thrums wildly in his chest. For the first time in their entire acquaintance, Geralt smells fear on the bard, and it sets his teeth on edge. He quickens Roach’s pace, intent on getting to the mayor’s estate and to the mage as quickly as he can. 

The mage turns out to be a woman. One with hair as black as ebony and glittering purple eyes. The filigree mask does little to hide her beauty, and Geralt suspects she must be quite a sight indeed. 

“Just a friend, I hope?” the sorceress asks with an arch of her eyebrow. Geralt doesn’t respond, only lets his gaze shift backwards towards the bard. There’s twin trails of blood coming out of his mouth, and his engorged throat appears to have doubled in size. Geralt’s jaw clenches at the sight, worry evident in the ember of his golden eyes. 

Yennefer sees it all, and her eyes narrow from beneath her mask. “I guess not,” she murmurs. 

Geralt snaps his gaze back to her. “Just help him. Please. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

Blissfully, the sorceress acquiesces without further scrutiny. The orgy is disbanded without much flourish, and she enlists Geralt to help carry Jaskier into one of the sprawling bedrooms in the mayor’s estate. Yennefer immediately places him under the influence of a magic-infused, healing sleep as she inspects his injury more closely. 

Geralt watches her from afar, arms crossed, guilt and worry and...something else, swirling around together to form an icy pit in his stomach. He doesn’t like these feelings, doesn’t like what they might imply. 

“Interesting,” Yennefer murmurs, drawing Geralt out of his spiraling thoughts. She tilts her head backwards towards the Witcher. “Did you know?”

“Know what.”

(Geralt, more often than not, does not believe in inflections. If Jaskier were awake, he’d tease him mercilessly about it. He fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose as Jaskier, yet again, enters his thoughts unbidden.)

“That your bard is part elf.”

“I-” Geralt exhales slowly, mind running back through countless conversations he’s had with Jaskier over the years. Mentions of Jaskier’s mother, driven into an early grave by in-laws too distrusting of her different nature. 

Never let Jaskier accuse him of not listening ever again. “He’s never said it outright, but it’s been...implied.”

“I see,” Yennefer replies, giving Jaskier another onceover before retreating back towards the Witcher. “Well, the good news is that his elven nature will help quicken the healing process. He’ll regain full use of his voice. No doubt he’ll be back to singing about his White Wolf in no time at all.”

Geralt is apt at hiding his relief, even though he can feel it in his bones. “Hm.”

“Now - ” Yennefer’s gaze flicks up and down Geralt’s face, “about what you can do from me.”

After he snaps out of Yennefer’s spell, he heads back to the mayor’s estate as quickly as he dares. The rush of seeing Jaskier alive and well and talking is quickly eclipsed by the realization of what Yennefer is about to do, and who actually holds the wish she seeks. 

“She saved your life Jaskier. I can’t let her die.”

When Yennefer portals them to the ground floor after the roof collapses on them, there’s only a few irritated barbs and heated looks exchanged before Yennefer’s undoing the laces of his leather trousers and he’s hoisting the skirts of her dress up. They’re fucking right there, on the floor, and it’s messy and a little uncoordinated, but it feels good. 

Geralt pretends not to notice Jaskier at the window, the shocked, searing blue gaze shooting straight through him and imprinting itself right onto his soul.

***

They stop sleeping together after Rinde. 

More accurately, Jaskier stops initiating. It’s not like Geralt hadn’t been the instigator of many of their sexual encounters in the past, but he feels like he’s not allowed to now. Yennefer is a huge, looming, unspoken presence between the two of them. Jaskier hasn’t exactly made his disdain for the sorceress a secret, although Geralt notices that he’s been careful not to bring up the fact he’d seen them fucking. 

Geralt isn’t exactly well-versed when it comes to parsing out feelings, but it’s obvious Jaskier’s bothered by what he saw, even though he’d never so much as blinked when Geralt had taken other lovers over the years. It sends a number of implications coursing through Geralt’s mind, ones he’s not entirely sure he’s ready to contend with. 

They are years into this little arrangement of theirs now, and the reason it’s worked for as long as it did is because it’s predicated on a certain level of detachment. It’s an agreement between friends - it’s not supposed to mean anything.

Geralt wonders if that might have changed.

Jaskier still travels with him across the Continent; observes the Witcher as he takes up contracts and hunts monsters; composes songs that elevate Geralt, so that both their names and reputations precede them in nearly every city, every town, every village they visit. He’s as youthful and attractive as he’s always been - probably will remain so for decades to come - and Geralt can no longer deny, after days stretch into weeks of this imposed celibacy, that he _misses_ the way their bodies used to slide against each other. The way they’d grown so in tune to their likes and needs in bed; how they played each other as well as Jaskier plays his lute, coaxing even greater heights of pleasure from one another. 

His will splinters like a branch about two months after the djinn and Yennefer. 

They’re camped just outside of Novigrad, brought here by whispers of a cockatrice nearby. Jaskier’s just shrugged out of his emerald green doublet, his eggshell chemise nearly translucent, and Geralt can see the smooth curve of the bard’s back as he leans forward to spread out his bedroll. The flickering light of the fire casts that face in an ethereal orange glow; highlights the delicate curve of that peach-pink mouth. 

He looks good - too good - and Geralt doesn’t want to spend one other gods-forsaken moment without all that soft, pale skin underneath him. He pitches forward and grabs Jaskier by the elbow. 

“Jaskier. Jaskier, I -” Geralt grits his teeth, trying to find the right words. Jaskier is looking up at him, patient as ever, and expectant. “I don’t want whatever this is between us to stop.”

There’s a deafening pause during which Geralt fears he may have forever altered the course of their relationship, and it fills him with cold, bitter dread. 

Then Jaskier smiles. “What took you so long, Witcher?” he whispers, wrapping a hand around Geralt’s medallion and pulling him into a searing kiss. Geralt can’t help the low groan that escapes him when that soft mouth presses against his. Gods, he’s missed this. He’s never missed anything the way he’s missed this. 

They fall back onto Jaskier’s bedroll, making quick work of their clothes. Geralt can’t stop himself from kissing and touching and biting - it’s like he’s been starved, and he now intends on getting his fill. 

It’s like no time at all has passed. The oil is soon to hand and Geralt reacquaints himself with the planes of a body he may as well have memorized. Every gasping, breathless moan Jaskier makes is music to his ears, and Geralt grips Jaskier’s hips so tightly as he sinks into that familiar wet heat he knows there’ll be bruises there in the morning. 

“ _Gods_ ,” Jaskier very nearly sobs out, throwing his head back as Geralt starts to thrust. “No one feels quite like you, Witcher.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that, feels overwhelmed with emotion all at once. This is...there is _meaning_ here. And he doesn’t want to ruin it with a poor choice of words so he leans forward and mouths at the bard’s throat instead. “ _Jaskier_ -”

Jaskier laughs, breathless. “Give it to me _harder_ , Geralt. You know I can take it.”

The Witcher finds he has no choice but to comply - wants nothing more than to grab each of Jaskier’s wrists in his hands and pin them above the bard’s head as he goes harder, faster, deeper. He gives Jaskier all he has, and Jaskier takes it - takes it _so well_ \- gives him just as much back, and when they finally reach that apex, Geralt’s vision nearly blacks out with the voracity of his climax. 

Months later, when they inevitably run into Yennefer again, Geralt still feels that same strange sense of kinship with the sorceress, but no urge to sleep with her once more. He tries to tell himself it doesn’t mean anything. 

The way Jaskier’s scent spikes with the sweet honey smell of pleased surprise when Geralt pointedly drags the bard to their room tells him it does. It shouldn’t fill his chest with sunlight. 

But it does.

***

“I think,” Jaskier whispers one night as he lays on top of Geralt’s chest, tracing idle patterns on his shoulder, “that I’d like to amend our arrangement a tad.”

“Is that so,” Geralt says, pleasantly relaxed. He thinks he can detect a slight hint of nervousness mixed in with Jaskier’s signature primrose and sandalwood scent, but no fear. Thank fuck. 

Jaskier clears his throat; meets the Witcher’s gaze head on. Geralt watches as Jaskier licks his lips - traces the movement of that pink tongue with faint interest. “Yes.”

“Let’s hear it then.”

“I think - I think we should keep sleeping with each other -”

“Well that’s good to hear -”

“- quiet now, Witcher, let me finish.” Jaskier takes a deep breath. “I would like it very much if we _only_ slept with each other. What do you think?”

Geralt considers Jaskier. It’s been - gods, it’s been nearly _fifteen_ years, an entire decade and a half, of this arrangement of theirs. There’s been little else in his life that’s been as constant, as steady, as Jaskier’s presence by his side. A life too often filled with blood and grime and ruin, made softer by an overly chatty bard who looked at Geralt once and saw something worthwhile - _keeps_ seeing something worthwhile. 

It’s been a long time since Geralt’s tried to convince himself this didn’t mean anything. An arrangement that stands the test of the time has to mean _something_. 

And it means -

It means he wants Jaskier, in his life. For as long as the bard will have him. 

So Geralt winds a hand into those soft brown locks; brings Jaskier flush against him. Up close, he can see the flecks of seafoam and amber in those dazzling blue eyes. 

“I think - yes,” he murmurs, right up against Jaskier’s lips, before sealing their mouths together.

Geralt feels Jaskier smile into the kiss. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr! I’m marvelousmaize on there too :)
> 
> Kudos, comments, bookmarks always welcome <3


End file.
